


All the Love You Ever Get

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe - minor character, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Language, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, soulmate au - last words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: Some carry the last words they'll ever hear their soulmate say like a brand on their skin. Whether it's a blessing or a curse is for the philosophers to decide.Hanzo, for his part, would rather fate had passed him by instead of leaving her mark.





	All the Love You Ever Get

**Author's Note:**

> TAGS.

Now that Hanzo is here, this feels like an inevitability. After months of trading barbs that dulled into simple teasing which softened again into flirting, finding himself in McCree’s bed seems only natural. Having just found out how well McCree can kiss, Hanzo simply wishes it had happened sooner.

McCree is now taking that clever mouth of his, good for so much more than wordplay Hanzo is finding, in a very promising direction. Ever contrary, he’s going the long way, indulging himself as he forges a path down Hanzo’s body. Hanzo hums, basking in the attention, even though parts of him are getting impatient.

Finally, McCree finds his way to the inside of Hanzo’s thighs, tantalizingly close, and Hanzo spreads his legs a little wider to give him room. But McCree stops, jerks back as if shocked with his eyebrows arched up into his unruly bangs. His mouth is replaced by fingers brushing over that detestable patch of skin. Hanzo bites his lower lip to suppress a frustrated groan. The last thing he wants is McCree inspecting _that_ tattoo.

In contrast to the careful detail of his sleeve, that one is nothing but a brutal black square resting on the inner side of his left thigh. He’d had it redone just before he’d followed Genji here, but soon he knows the pale lines will reappear and necessitate more ink. One of Hanzo’s many misfortunes is the soulmate mark under that tattoo, and it refuses to stay hidden for long.

Most people don’t carry the burden of knowing the last words they ever hear their soulmate say. They live their lives without fate’s bitter machinations branded into their skin. Hanzo isn’t so lucky. His perfect match out there somewhere, and his only clue is what they will say in parting. For him, there is only a single word indelibly marked into his flesh in blocky, English script.

_Don’t_

Hanzo has hidden it for almost as long as he’s had it, though the word is burned into his memory. In his youth, it was a curiosity, something he paid little mind. Back then, he assumed he would never get any significant time with his soulmate, that the demands of his position would override his own wants. And anyway, any number of people might say that in passing. He might be one of those who only ever got a fleeting brush with destiny, doomed to repeat the search in another life. Fate being what it was, he endeavored to let it go.

But after _that night_ , after he found out just what he was capable of, it took on a whole new meaning. If he could murder his baby brother, who he’d known almost all his life, what could he do to the soulmate who was still a stranger? What would he do that would precede that lonely _don’t_? What was he destined to do to the only person he was perfectly compatible with?

Hanzo had blacked out the mark rather than contemplate it. Had isolated himself rather than risk the connection he clearly no longer deserved. So when McCree’s fingertips linger too long on the tattoo, Hanzo grabs his hand and yanks it away, moving it to his cock instead. McCree huffs and shakes his head.

“Never mind, then,” he mumbles, then very quickly returns to the business at hand. Hanzo tries to lose himself in it, put the mark out of his mind, and mostly succeeds.

He doesn’t expect more than a little fun from McCree. He thinks that’s all McCree’s expecting in return. But still, once Hanzo’s recovered enough to return the favor, he goes on a single minded hunt across McCree’s skin, propelled by an absurd anxiety that he too might be carrying a mark, but there are no words lurking on his flesh.

Hanzo doesn’t shake with relief, but it’s a near thing.

If McCree doesn’t have a soulmate, then Hanzo never has to worry about being his. Never has to listen to McCree in anticipation of that word. This can stay what it should be. It’s easy then to dedicate himself to depriving McCree of coherent thought, and only when Hanzo’s sure McCree’s forgotten everything but his name does he let McCree finish.

It’s a good night, all things considered.

So it’s not so much of a surprise when McCree asks for another round a few days later. They have another good night. A few days after that, yet another. It becomes a routine. Hanzo can’t say he minds, but he tries not to think very deeply about it. McCree knows what he’s doing in bed, is charming enough company out of it. That’s all it has to be.

 

* * *

 

But it’s also quiet nights on balconies, swapping sips from bottles.

It’s smoking under overhangs while the rain pours down.

It’s covering each other on a frantic retreat.

It’s keeping the occasional bitter, liquor soaked words in confidence.

It’s comradery, and nothing more, Hanzo reminds himself.

 

* * *

 

McCree is in the motorpool, playing with his motorcycle again, when Hanzo returns from the city. The motorcycle seems to spend more time on blocks than not, but as hobbies go Hanzo’s heard of worse. Besides, he likes the look of McCree concentrating. He spends a moment watching before McCree notices him and gets back to his feet.

“You were in town awhile,” McCree says by way of greeting.

Hanzo tosses McCree a pack of his brand of cigars. Dr. Ziegler was on the last supply run, and she won’t let anyone buy them as a matter of principle. But, well, Hanzo was already buying cigarettes for himself, and he’s found plenty of benefit to being in McCree’s good graces.

“I was.”

McCree gives him the space to elaborate, but Hanzo only lights a cigarette. McCree doesn’t need to know he was getting the tattoo touched up. Hanzo could let it go until he couldn’t stand the sight of it before, but now it feels more important to keep it hidden. McCree seems above the silly notions he’s heard from some without marks, doesn’t seem the type to bemoan a lack of destiny, but experience has taught Hanzo that soulmate talk tends to sour the mood.

McCree wipes his hands on a nearby rag and lights his own cigar. They stand together in easy silence, letting the nicotine buzz its way through them.

The smoking leads, as it often does, to cracking open a bottle McCree had stashed. Hanzo teases him about the tendency of the motorcycle to be in pieces. McCree fires back about Hanzo’s particular brand of impossible to find menthols. From there, it spins out, teasing and pontificating by turns. It’s their usual game, nothing really meant by anything they say but enjoyable all the same.

“You know, that’s not the first one of those I’ve seen.” McCree says.

Hanzo grunts an interrogative. Their conversation had lapsed into an easy quiet, and that statement couldn’t possibly be a continuance. Hanzo’s pleasantly buzzed mind can’t come up with a single context in which it would make sense. McCree pats his own leg twice, right where Hanzo’s mark is, and anything pleasant in Hanzo immediately evaporates.

“Covering over a mark. Is it really that bad?” McCree continues.

“Questions like that are not how you get laid,” Hanzo says, just shy of snapping.

“Okay, fine, fine.” McCree shifts, angling into Hanzo’s space. The look on his face isn’t quite contrite, but it’s clear enough he’ll drop it. “So, what kinda questions _will_ get me laid?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, spends a moment considering. McCree bats his eyelashes, which is so absurd in the moment that Hanzo can’t help but laugh and say,

“That one will do.”

When once again they’ve shed their clothes and found themselves in bed, McCree doesn’t mention the bandage covering the fresh ink.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo would never call it a relationship. It’s just a mutual understanding, a beneficial arrangement, good company. McCree is someone else who understands regret, who has demons, who knows the easiest ways they can be chased away for a time.

McCree also has people who don’t like how he gets through his darker moments. Hanzo is sure he isn’t the only one who’s overheard the occasional heated moment in Fareeha’s lectures to McCree after a night of drinking, and in those instances he’s grateful Genji tends toward a quieter kind of disapproval.

Hanzo might, however, be the only one who will heat McCree up something greasy and pour a little hair of the dog into his coffee after she’s done. Hanzo sets the plate and the mug at his elbow and sits down across from him with a cup of his own.

“Thanks,” McCree grunts. He looks like shit, but then he did drink a fifth and change only a few hours ago. It was the anniversary of something bad Hanzo had gathered, but he hadn’t pressed much. They don’t do that, don’t pry. “She’s got some nerve ridin’ my ass ‘bout my health, like that damn rocket pack is safe,” he continues, petulant.

Hanzo nods, lifts his mug to his lips. Dr. Ziegler must have made the pot, it’s strong enough to strip paint. Well, McCree will appreciate it.

“And besides that, you sister is wrong,” McCree interrupts softly— _shit you heard all that_ —but Hanzo continues, “You’re not drinking _alone_.”

McCree huffs, the barest smile revealing his teeth.

“I’ll be sure to tell her that next time.”

 

* * *

 

The mood on the Orca is tense coming back. Genji is angry, as he often is, about Hanzo’s choices in the field, which is absurd. Hanzo only made the most rational decision available. He weighed the goal against the cost, and acted accordingly.

Given that he was only risking himself as collateral damage, and that he is a grown man who can make that call, he doesn’t see the issue. Surely Genji didn’t think asking Hanzo to work for a group of vigilantes would be _safe_.

Hanzo is the first off the Orca, hoping to escape his brother and whatever he’s about to say. Someone follows him, so he picks up his pace. He is tired and sore and the last thing he wants is to bite his tongue through one of Genji’s lectures.

But it’s McCree that followed him, wearing an unreadable expression. They are barely alone, somewhat out of sight of the Orca but surely not out of earshot, but that doesn’t stop McCree backing Hanzo into a wall.

He’s not looming, exactly, but McCree takes up most of Hanzo’s field of vision. He raises both his arms, rests his forearms on either side of Hanzo’s head and rests his forehead against Hanzo’s. Hanzo remains frozen in place. Nothing else McCree could have done could have pinned him quite as well as that.

After a moment, McCree leans down, kisses Hanzo likes he’s drowning and Hanzo’s the only air. The intensity shocks Hanzo, but, not to be outdone, Hanzo returns it. McCree’s hands move, cradle his jaw with an incongruent delicacy. Hanzo pulls his hips closer, because that’s familiar, the next step, but McCree pulls away to speak.

“ _Don’t do that again_.”

It should be a demand, but the way McCree's voice shakes turns the words into a plea. Hanzo nods, dumbstruck by the raw _fear_ he sees in McCree’s face. McCree swallows loudly and backs away. His mask rises back into place, perfect except for the slight redness in his lips and shine in his eyes, and he leaves Hanzo standing there.

The only, albeit slightly hysterical, thought in his head is that McCree doesn’t have a mark, and that he said more than  _don’t_.

 

* * *

 

“It’s all bullshit, you know,” Hanzo starts. He’s had too much to drink. He should keep his mouth shut. The former, however, is making the later difficult, even knowing as he does that McCree is deploying tomorrow and he should keep their conversation lighter.

“Uh-huh,” McCree says, recrossing his long legs. That’s momentarily diverting, but Hanzo’s mouth keeps going.

“These fucking marks. Just a constant reminder that you will lose them. Or that they will lose you. That it will still go wrong, no matter how good it starts. You know, everyone meets someone who will be the best they will ever have, that’s just _logic_ , but only some of us get our noses rubbed in it. Bullshit.”

McCree regards that statement with a considering hum. Hanzo takes another sip.

“You met ‘em already?”

“No. Well, I mean, I don’t think so. ”

“One of those, huh.”

Hanzo blows out a breath, not quite a sigh. He still hopes he never does. Or maybe that he had, long ago, and hadn't noticed. The life he's leading now seems more fitting that some fated romance, especially for someone like him.

“So, I’m wonderin’,” McCree continues, “what it is you’ve got in that bottle that’s got you spouting a bunch of morose horseshit.”

“I am being serious.”

“Me too, Nietzsche. C’mon, let me try. Bet I can say somethin’ worse.”

McCree telegraphs a swipe at Hanzo’s bottle. Hanzo jerks it out of reach, shoves McCree for good measure. McCree laughs a little and waves a hand in surrender.

“You’ll just opine about your motorcycle.”

“There’s more to me than that!”

“You also have a nice ass, but you can’t complain about that.”

“Sure I can. I can bitch about anythin’, I’ve been told.”

“All the more reason not to give you the opportunity to begin.”

But McCree does begin, making up exaggerated complaints about how his very nice ass has gone unappreciated in the past, and Hanzo has to change the subject to get him to stop. The mood is still lifted, and stays that way until McCree declares his need to get some rest before he leaves. As they gather up their things, one last thought, far too genuine, slips past Hanzo’s teeth.

“You’re lucky. Not to have one, I mean.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” McCree’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and his voice sounds strange. “Luckiest son of a bitch I know.”

 

* * *

 

McCree missed his check-in.

Hanzo finds out when Winston asks him if there was any way he’d heard from McCree. He can only shake his head, not trusting his voice. Hanzo isn’t the best at reading Winston’s expressions, but he thinks this one is fear.

Hanzo tries to tell himself that there are any number of innocuous reasons that McCree could be late. Besides, McCree is a professional. He can take care of himself.

There’s a tiny, traitorous part of him that wishes it meant anything at all that the last thing McCree said to him wasn’t lying in wait under his tattoo.

Still, Hanzo follows Winston, as if his presence could do anything but take up space. As if waiting for a call with others would do anything more to soothe the worry between his ribs than waiting alone would. If McCree sees him there when he does call then he’ll tease him endlessly when he returns, Hanzo knows it. Hanzo can practically hear it already.

Hanzo tests the idea of McCree _not_ calling, because it is a real possibility, and finds it twists his stomach. McCree is his friend, and more than that McCree makes him feel _known_ in a way he’s come to treasure. Continuing on without him here would be possible, certainly, but Hanzo finds it fills him with a lonely kind of dread.

Genji and Fareeha are arguing with Morrison when he and Winston enter the war room, trying to decide whether to go or whether to wait. McCree was to be deployed for at least another two weeks, and going now, guns blazing, risks alerting the arms dealers McCree was surveilling to their interest. On the other hand, if McCree needs them then time is of the essence.

Hanzo doesn’t join the argument. He can’t. It would mean letting go of the hope that McCree is fine.

Winston gets the three of them to shut up, but that only lasts for a little while. The tension in the room multiplies with every passing moment, and others come to sit and stew in it as Winston and Athena try to pinpoint where McCree could have gone.

Suddenly, the main screen lights up with McCree’s designation and the symbol for a video call. Hanzo’s stomach plummets. McCree almost never bothers with video calls. Winston answers after the briefest moment of stunned hesitation.

McCree takes up most of the frame, but not in any way Hanzo had hoped. He’s tied to a chair, and it looks like someone worked him over. They also gagged him, but his defiant scowl gives Hanzo the flimsiest comfort.

“Now I wonder just who’s on the other end of this?” a voice asks, feminine sounding with nearly the same accent as McCree.

A woman appears in the frame, obscuring McCree as she looks back at them. She is as pale as a corpse, with white hair and violently red lips. The smile creeping across her face gives her features all the warmth of a viper.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Friends, I’m assumin'?”

McCree's response is muffled into nonsense, but the cadence of his brand of profanity is obvious to anyone who knows him.

“Excuse me,” Winston says, “But you have one of my Agents.”

“You’re _workin’_ for somebody, McCree? What’s this world comin’ to?”

She knows who he is. Hanzo’s eyes linger on the bruises on McCree’s face. This is _very_ bad. The very best option is that she wants his bounty.

“He is. Now, I assume you’ve called for a reason. I hope it’s so we can negotiate his safe return.”

The woman snorts indelicately.

“Maybe I’m just snoopin’ through this bastard’s kit.”

“Get on with it,” Hanzo snaps with a venom that surprises even himself.

“Testy,” she coos. “But since y’all are so impatient, I’ll cut to the chase. You were fixin’ to cause me a hell of a lotta trouble, but I’m willin’ to forgive it since you also handed me this son of a bitch. I think we’re square, here.”

Hanzo’s stomach sinks.

"Now just wait—" Winston starts, but Hanzo interrupts.

“He’s worth sixty million. I’ll double it if you return him alive,” Somehow Hanzo's voice stays even. He’d have to raid accounts he’s left fallow since he left the Shimada-gumi, and it would surely draw attention to him, but he can’t find it in him to care.

“Thanks but no thanks. This is personal, sugar. Been lookin’ for him for a long damn time, and I'm gonna give him what's comin'.”

Hanzo’s vision spots with a kind of explosive anger he hasn’t felt in a long time. Maybe ever. The air in the war room crackles, the beasts under Hanzo’s skin feeding on his rage, and he leans over the table so she better can see his face.

“If you do, I will find you, and I will kill you,” Hanzo snarls, each word loud and sure.

The woman, to Hanzo’s utter bafflement, begins laughing. She howls with mirth, tears visibly gathering in her eyes. In the background, McCree has blanched, terror pinning his eyes wide. Hanzo can see his chest heaving, struggling for air, then he begins trying to fight his way free in earnest.

“Oh shit, did you hear that?” The woman turns back to look at McCree, then laughs harder. “You found him after all, you son of bitch. Guess you know what this means.”

Awful realization robs the air from Hanzo’s lungs. He collapses back into his chair. McCree couldn’t—

But he could. McCree doesn’t have a left arm anymore. This woman knows him. She must have known him before he was hurt.

When he was still whole.

When he still had a mark.

How could Hanzo have been so blind? He lifts his hand to his traitorous mouth. If he could only take back the words. He presses his other hand to his leg. McCree hasn’t said anything yet. There’s still time. If they can just get to him, then maybe—

The woman turns back to the camera, wearing a smile like a knife slash. “We’re done here.”

In the background, McCree has worked the gag loose against his shoulder, but he only manages one word before the call ends—

“ _DON’T!”_


End file.
